


Inquisitor Hawke (no, not that one)

by Bowm8935



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alcohol, Inquisitor Carver AU, M/M, mention of tranquility
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-11
Updated: 2016-09-11
Packaged: 2018-08-14 09:32:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8008213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bowm8935/pseuds/Bowm8935
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Templar!Carver becomes the Inquisitor. These are a few prompt based shorts revolving around his relationship with Dorian that I've pulled together in the same AU. More may come, or not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "I'm sorry, but that was adorable."

The trip to Skyhold had been long and arduous, especially with Carver being injured. Haven had taken far more out of him than he would’ve liked to admit, leaving him with part of his arm fractured, a dislocated shoulder and a few broken ribs. There was pain radiating from his left foot all the way to his hip, but nothing broken or strained, and so it was ignored. The Inquisition had very few healers, even fewer that were up to the task after such a narrow escape through the blizzard conditions. Carver caught himself wishing for his brother and Anders more than once, because none of them possessed the same power as the spirit healer did.  


He had been patched up enough to walk- or, more accurately, stumble through the snow- and had led the way to the fortress the frustrating elf had directed him to. He wondered, in hindsight, if he should have recruited the Templars instead of the mages- then they wouldn’t have fallen under Corypheus’ influence.  


And what a mess _that_ was. He grumbled under his breath as he made his way across the ramparts, having just helped the Commander settle into his new office. He and his brother had _killed_ the bloody ex-magister once already, and yet here he was again, hounding him for the mark on his hand. The mark that he never wanted; the mark that he _still_ didn’t want.

There was a time when he wished he could make as large of a mark on the world as his brother, the blasted Champion of Kirkwall, or his cousin, the Warden-Commander of Ferelden, had. He found that given the opportunity, he preferred to work from the sidelines as opposed to being front and center.  


There was talk among the advisors of making him the leader of the Inquisition; he had overheard them earlier as they were setting up the room where they would hold their war councils. He wasn’t sure about that; he didn’t particularly want to lead _anyone_ , but he wasn’t sure it was actually going to be his choice.

The stairs were a chore. He managed down the ones from the ramparts with a hand on his side, clutching at his healing ribs, the other hand gripping the stone railing tightly. Going up the ones that led to the main part of the fortress? That was another story completely.

The one positive he had found in this whole mess was standing at the top of that flight of stairs, unfortunately turning his gaze to see when Carver stumbled a few steps up. He quickly sat down, doing his best to steady his breathing as the Tevinter mage descended toward him.  


“Do you require assistance?” Dorian asked, crouching and looking at him with some concern in his expression.  


“No,” snapped Carver, regretting it instantly when hurt briefly passed over the mage’s face. “I mean, no, I-I’m fine. Thanks, though. Just wanted to sit for a bit.”

Dorian raised an eyebrow at him, cocking his head to the side with obvious amusement. “So you decided to sit on the stairs?”

Carver snorted; it did sound rather ridiculous. “I guess,” he said, shrugging. “Wanna join?” He gestured to the stair next to him, doing his best not to watch the other man too closely lest his hidden feelings be discovered.

Dorian stared at the proffered stair for a moment before reaching one gloved hand to brush the dirt off of the step. He then gracefully lowered himself down, sitting with his back against the railing and his legs crossed elegantly in front of him. “Is this typical of Fereldans?” he teased, smiling at Carver.

A chuckle escaped him as he returned the grin. “Us barbarians don’t like chairs, you know. Gotta sleep on the ground and sit on the stone to keep us happy.”

“Hmm. And here I thought it was just the dwarves with such peculiarities.”

Again he laughed, marveling at how much he enjoyed Dorian’s company. It had been long, too long since he had wanted anyone as much as he wanted the man sitting beside him, and he wasn’t sure how to proceed, or even if Dorian would be receptive to such a thing.  


“So what would it take to convince a big, handsome barbarian such as yourself to climb the rest of the stairs and sit in an actual chair? Perhaps I could look at those injuries and see if I know of anything that can help. I admit I’m getting a little uncomfortable sitting here.” Dorian shifted his position slightly as though to prove his point, casting a longing glance up to the door inside.

“You had me convinced at taking your shirt off- I mean, my shirt off! To look at my ribs, I mean… _Oh, Maker,”_ Carver groaned, slapping a hand over his face in embarrassment. He always said such stupid thing when he felt nervous, and this was certainly not an exception.

Light, joyful laughter erupted from beside him, and he dared a peek between his fingers to find Dorian grinning widely, a light in his eyes that had been absent before. “I’m sorry, but that was adorable. You’re adorable when you’re nervous, all flushed and tripping over your words.”  


“Yes, bloody _adorable_ is just what I want to be,” Carver grumbled, dropping his hand in frustration.  


Dorian stood up, brushing off his robes before holding out a hand. “Adorable is good, but I can, of course, flatter you in other ways. Big, strong, manly, incredibly handsome, to start off with. Are those more satisfying?”

Carver glared at him, taking the hand and pulling himself up. “Now you’re just making fun of me.”  


“Making fun of you? Perish the thought! I’m simply telling you what I think of you, my dear barbarian friend. Come, let us go divest you of your tunic, and maybe, if you’re lucky, I’ll let you take off mine as well.” Dorian winked mischievously at him, turning around and gracefully walking up the steps to disappear through the door into the main hall.  


Carver stared after him, mouth agape as he processed what he had just been told. Then, as it sunk in, he let a smirk cross over his face as he took the stairs two-by-two, pain resolutely ignored as he chased after the mage into the stronghold.  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unreciprocated hug prompt

Carver inhaled sharply when he walked into the library at Skyhold, both relieved and apprehensive to find who he was looking for was perusing the bookshelves as usual. Carver had known there would likely be some repercussions when he had made the call to make Magister Alexius tranquil, but he hadn’t expected Dorian to react nearly as poorly as he had. Their last conversation revolved around it had ended up in a heated argument, Dorian making a dramatic exit out of his quarters when Carver refused to back down on his reasoning. That had been a few days ago, and it was obvious that Dorian had been avoiding him since.  


“Can I help you, Inquisitor?”  


Carver flinched at the cold tone Dorian used, not used to being on the receiving end of the mage’s ire. The manner in which his title was spat certainly didn’t bode well for him, either; in the past, Dorian only ever used it in a joking manner.

“Dorian,” he began, waiting until the man’s gaze met his, disheartened by the emptiness he saw there. “I… I miss you. I don’t like this, this not talking to each other. Can we start over?”

“Why? So you can make me tranquil when I do something you disapprove of?” Dorian had narrowed his eyes at him, arms folded over his chest as he glared at Carver. “I am amazed that you even chose to recruit the mages if you think so poorly of us.”

“Dorian, that’s not fair!” he argued, feeling the familiar anger rising within him. _No,_ he told himself. _Keep it under control. You’re not here to fight_. He sighed wearily, rubbing his forehead as he tried to tamp the unwelcome emotion back down. “That’s not how it is, and you know that. I don’t dislike mages; bloody void, my own sister is one!”

“Well, that certainly makes everything all better,” Dorian answered wryly, raising an eyebrow at him. “So your sister is safe, but what about the rest of us?”

“I would never hurt you!” Carver blurted, wanting to make him understand. “Or any mage who isn’t evil.”

“Spoken like a true southern templar.” Dorian was sneering, his hip jutting out as he stared at the man in front of him. “That begs the question- what is the true definition of ‘evil?’”

Carver felt the tears prickling at his eyes, and in a desperate attempt to convince Dorian how he felt, he lunged forward, pulling the surprised mage into his arms and hugging him tightly. “Please, Dorian,” he whispered, burying his nose into the dark hair that he loved so much. “Please, don’t do this; I need you, I need _us.”  
_

Dorian remained stiff in his arms, and eventually Carver released him, pulling back to see the hard look on his face hadn’t changed a bit. “I think it’s time for you to leave,” Dorian said softly, turning to face the bookshelf by him again.

Carver blinked rapidly to hold the tears from spilling forth, spinning around and heading quickly to his room.  


He really had cocked everything up this time.  



	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "I'm desperate."  
> "Well, I'm glad you can admit that."

The Winter palace was large and ridiculously ornate, and full of Orlesians. Carver certainly wasn’t a fan of the former, but it was the latter that he truly despised. He tugged at his collar, the stiff material scratching uncomfortably against his skin. He had made it through most of the night, drawing on the manners his mother had taught him so many years ago to interact with the frustrating nobility around him expertly. It did not escape his notice how all of his companions looked surprised at his abilities, and he wasn’t sure if he felt more amused or offended that they thought him so incapable of being a gentleman. He had scoffed at Josephine when she had initially offered to “teach” him how to handle those of the upper echelons; please, he _chose_ to be the way he was. It was better to be among the rubble than with the fake, back-stabbing and fickle nobility.

With the exception of one, of course.

He had yet to be able to fully mend things between himself and Dorian since Magister Alexius, but there had been a few steps taken in the right direction. Dorian was no longer nearly as frigid toward him, but neither would he call their interactions “warm.” At least Dorian looked at him now, the hatred that had permeated his gaze for so long finally absent. They had even been able to engage in some conversation successfully, and Dorian no longer went out of his way to avoid him. Yes, things had improved between them drastically, though not nearly as much as Carver wanted.

He wanted to go back to the way things were in the beginning. Alas, such a thing was not so easily achieved.   


He leaned against the railing on the balcony, thankful that the worst of the evening was over. He’d been introduced, he’d mingled, he’d even danced with the Grand Duchess before exposing her to the court. The best part of the night had been when he snuck around investigating all the nooks and crannies of the palace, out of the way of anyone who would ask too many questions or try to seduce him in some manner. 

The cool night air felt good as a breeze ruffled his hair, and he closed his eyes, enjoying the feel of the outdoors. He could not _wait_ to get out here, to get back to Skyhold. The stuffy nobles there were at least under his roof, where he could be himself without much fear of retribution.

A light touch of his shoulder drew him out of his thoughts, and he turned his head slightly to see a familiar hand placed there. “Dorian?” he asked in confusion, brows knitting together. Why was he here, and touching him, no less? Not that he was complaining, mind you, but it was definitely a surprise.

“I wanted to compliment you on your exquisite conduct tonight, Inquisitor,” Dorian said, smiling at him, not unkindly. “I do believe you’ve surprised us all.”

“Yes, well, even us barbarians can have some manners if we want to,” replied Carver, his tone light. Dorian laughed in response, coming around to lean on the rail next to him, eyes sparkling. Carver knew that Dorian thrived in this type of situation, and had been enjoying the ball much more than the rest of their party. He had observed the man conversing energetically, eyes alight and movements lively, and had chosen to leave him be; after all, it was likely he would ruin his good mood and he had no desire to rob Dorian of his enjoyment.

“I do not doubt that is true, Carver.” Carver jerked slightly from the use of his name, eyes searching Dorian’s face in confusion. Dorian raised an eyebrow at the shocked look that had firmly planted itself on his face, a smirk falling into place on that maddeningly handsome face. Before Carver could fully comprehend what was going on, Dorian took a step back and bowed low, reaching a hand out to him. “Would you grant me a dance?”

“I…what?” Carver asked dumbly, blinking in surprise at Dorian. “But you-?” He halted his speech, unsure how to finish the sentence. He did want to dance with Dorian, to hold him in his arms once more, but for the man to initiate something of this nature since their falling out was unprecedented. 

Dorian straightened, placing an arm across his chest as a hand came up to stroke at his mustache, looking thoughtfully at Carver. “You believe I hate you, yes?” he inquired, voice tinged with sadness. When Carver nodded mutely, Dorian sighed and dropped his arms to his side, shaking his head slowly. “That is of my own doing. I do not hate you, Carver, nor have I ever. I’m sorry that I let you believe that. I was… grieving, I suppose, and I took out much of my anger on you, undeservedly so.”

Carver stepped forward, reaching out to hesitantly place a hand on Dorian’s arm. “No, I deserved your anger then, and I still do now. What I did was wrong. It was bloody terrible of me to make him tranquil.” 

Dorian tilted his head, gazing up at Carver with a small, sad smile on his face. “I cannot disagree with you on that point, but neither can I fault you for the decision. I’ve had plenty of time to think about it and find that I regret having pushed you away. So, let me make it up to you with a dance?”

Carver huffed out a small laugh, nodding his assent. “Of course,” he responded, dropping his arm to let Dorian dictate how they began. He had never danced with another man, and was unsure how to initiate such a thing. 

Dorian placed his arm on Carver’s waist, directing his hand to land on top of his shoulder. Lacing their remaining hands together, he started to pull Carver across the balcony as though it were the dance floor itself, and Carver let himself enjoy the closeness he had missed between them.  “Thank you, Dorian,” he whispered, smiling happily down at the man leading him. “I’m just… I was rather desperate to make it up to you, you know.”

Dorian laughed again, this time in a quieter fashion, shaking his head. “Well, at least you admit it. Come, Carver, let’s dance and enjoy the rest of our night, shall we?”


	4. In the Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the only non-prompt based short is far. It takes place after adamant.

Carver was dragging, his feet feeling like they were unable to lift off the ground. It had been over two weeks since Adamant, and he had yet to rise out of the intense self-loathing he felt. He grabbed the bottle of wine that was still sitting half-drank on the desk in his room, effortlessly draining the rest of it before trudging down the stairs. He was needed in the war room for yet another bloody meeting, and he supposed he should at least bother to make an appearance.

He made the short walk from his door to the one leading down the hallway to the large room, managing to keep his gait fairly even and close to normal. The bright light of the morning shone through the hole that was still in the wall, and he squinted as it bore into his head, a hand coming up to shield his oversensitive eyes.

When he entered the room, he halted, narrowing his eyes suspiciously at the three advisors before him. They had been clumped together, talking in hushed voices until he walked in, at which point they all three sprung apart, trying to look innocuous. Only Leliana managed to pull off the act- not a surprise, really, seeing as she was the bloody _spymaster_ \- while both Cullen and Josephine avoided his eye, studying the war table and the floor, respectively. 

“Fucking _what_?” he snarled, stomping forward to slam his hands on the large table in front of him. Josephine jumped slightly at the loud noise, earning him an icy glare from Leliana. “If you have something to say to me, just _bloody say it._ ”

“I don’t believe we have anything to say that would be new to you,” Leliana answered coolly, calm despite his agitation.   


“That hasn’t stopped you before,” he grumbled, using the table to steady himself when the world felt like it tilted to the side. The three in front of him exchanged glances at the movement, and he cursed himself for not being able to hide it completely. Weak. He was weak.

“Are you drunk, Inquisitor?” Josephine asked, pity evident in her voice. He grunted in response, not bothering to look at her. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Josie, he’s been drunk for the past two weeks straight,” responded Leliana disapprovingly, and he slammed his fists into the table again.

“What’s it matter to you if I am?” he growled, glowering at them. “I lost my bloody _brother_ you twats, so excuse me if I choose to drink a little to help with the guilt.”

“A little bit is one thing,” Cullen chimed in, flinching when Carver swung his gaze in his direction. “But this, this is excessive, even for you.”

“Fucking bite me,” Carver ground out through clenched teeth, pushing himself up straight again. “I don’t need this. I don’t need _you_. Go find yourselves a new sodding inquisitor.” He turned and stumbled back to the door, slamming it behind him and ignoring the feeble protests he heard behind him. He was done, done with all of this. If he hadn’t been the bloody inquisitor, if he hadn’t been at the Maker-cursed conclave when it exploded, then Garrett would still be alive and annoying the shit out of him. Which he found he missed far more than he could have ever predicted.

The trip into the fade had been jarring in the first place; to be on the ramparts of Adamant one moment, falling to the ground to certain death the next, and then suddenly in the Fade, of all places, was not what he had expected. He was thankful that his companions had come through also, else he most likely would never have been able to survive long enough to escape. 

He sure wished Garrett hadn’t been there, though.

He made it back up his stairs, grabbing a bag and planning to pack it with just enough to get him far away from Skyhold. Maybe he could take up farming; he knew enough about it from his time in Lothering, and he was strong enough to protect himself. Yes, that sounded like it could work.

A rustling noise pulled his attention to the sitting chair in the corner, and he saw Dorian was there, leaning forward with concern etched upon his every feature. “Amatus,” he began, but Carver just shook his head and continued to the dresser where his clothes were. 

“I’m leaving, Dorian. I… I can’t do this anymore, it’s too much.” Carver yanked open a drawer, shoving a few plan tunics into the bag, trying to work it out in his muddled brain how many would be wise to bring. 

He sighed when Dorian wrapped his arms around him, pulling him back toward the bed. Carver didn’t bother to struggle against him; he very much doubted that he could shake him off with how inebriated he was, anyway. When Dorian let go and pushed him down to sit on the side of the mattress, he fell back willingly, slumping in defeat. 

“Carver,” Dorian said softly, sitting next to him and taking his hand in his. “Talk to me. Is this about Garrett?”

Carver looked away, trying to hold back the tears he felt forming. “Why would you think it’s about him?” he asked grumpily, one hand trailing over the duvet that he was sitting on.

“Because I know you, amatus, and I know that he was the last family you had. You’ve been drunk since you came back from Adamant. Will you please tell me what happened?” Carver had refused to speak about the incident ever since it had happened, even to his boyfriend. The rest of the group had kept to themselves, for the most part, as well; very little was known about what occurred in the Fade. 

Maybe it was time to talk about it.

Carver sighed, leaning against Dorian as he tried to organize thoughts through the fog in his brain. “I killed him,” he whispered, the guilt he felt rearing up inside of him as he acknowledged it. “I could have saved him…but I didn’t. It’s my fault he’s dead.”

Dorian had placed an arm around his shoulders, and was rubbing his arm consolingly. “I’m sure that’s not true,” he replied, but Carver cut him off before he could continue. 

“It bloody well is! We… we made it through the Fade, and the way out was in front of us, and then,” his voice faltered as the memories surged forward; the spirit, guiding them to the giant green rift that would allow them escape; the nightmare and its beast, stepping in front of them; the choice he had been forced to make.

Dorian waited patiently next to him, allowing Carver to try to piece himself back together enough to continue. “A demon blocked our way. We had no chance of defeating it, and so… one of us had to stay, to make sure the others got out. It was between Garrett and the Warden-Commander. I told the Warden-Commander to stay, but she- but Garrett… he shoved her forward before getting the beast’s attention and leading it away from us. And we- we left. We left him there, Dorian, by himself.” That was the crux of it, the guilt of abandoning his own brother to certain death weighing heavily on him.

“Carver, it sounds like he sealed his fate, not you,” came the soft reply, but Carver violently shook his head. 

“No! I should’ve stayed, I should’ve done _something_ to save him. He’s my brother, my family… and I abandoned him. I _fucking abandoned him._ ” He couldn’t hold back the flood of tears as his emotions swelled, overtaking him completely. 

Dorian held him, remaining quiet as Carver sobbed against him. Eventually there were no more tears, his eyes sore and dry from the crying spell. “It’s my fault,” he whispered into Dorian’s shoulder, unable to bring himself to look up at him.

“No. You had to make a difficult decision, and he made it for you. It’s okay to grieve, Carver, but you need to stop placing all the blame upon yourself.” Dorian was talking softly, a hand running slowly through Carver’s hair. “Don’t go, please. Let me, let _us_ help you through this.”

“I don’t know, Dorian. I don’t know if I can do this anymore.”

He heard Dorian let out a sigh before pushing him back to lay on the bed. “I know you can. You just need time to recover. _Without_ drinking.” Carver let out a wet laugh, bringing a small smile onto Dorian’s face. “Just please, stay.” The smile morphed into a larger grin when Carver nodded, and Dorian laid down next to him. “Thank you, amatus. Now, I think you need to sleep off some of this alcohol.”

**Author's Note:**

> Did you like it? Did you love it? Did you... *gasp* hate it? Let me know! I'm always open for reviews, comments and helpful criticism.  
> I'm here to grow. :)
> 
> You can also find me on Tumblr as StarlingHawke
> 
> Feel free to ask for any prompts regarding this that come to mind. If I can, I'll do them.


End file.
